


I'll Ignite For You

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: megexchange, Dubious Consent, F/F, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>This isn't a carnival, and you're sure worse things can happen down here than wandering around with a demon. </em> - Bela/Meg, hellfic, set after Bela's demise in S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Ignite For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_gabih](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gabih/gifts).



> For the prompt “Meg finding Bela in Hell and taking her under her wing“. I don't have much to say about this one, other than pointing out how much fun I had with it. SO MUCH FUN. HELLFIC IS AWESOME. And I might be slightly insane. Ahem. 
> 
> Maybemalapert and rosereddawn both made this a million times better than it was before. ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Light Up The Sky" by Yellowcard.

At first, Hell isn't what you pictured. There are no fires or mangled bodies, no blood, no screams of agony. There's no one else around at all.

You come to in your old room, at your parent's place back in England. For a horrible moment, you think you've dreamt up the past ten years, the deal, your parents' death, everything, and that you're stuck in the exact same place you started.

Then you realize that it'd be a good thing if that were true. When you were a child you couldn't imagine a horror greater than this – waiting for your father to enter the room at night, or the silent, muffled cries into your pillow after it happened – but now that you're an adult you're quite aware that it can get so much worse. You never had regrets, not really. But there's _feeling like you're going through hell_ and then there's actual, true _Hell_ , with a capital H. You were sure the two would be very different.

Turns out, they're the exact same thing.

You sit on your bed in your shredded clothes, knees drawn up to your chest and arms wrapped around them, and you wait. For hours, for days, for what feels like an eternity. Sometimes, there's muffled voices outside of the door, your father mostly. He's whispering your name, tells you to wait, tells you he'll be there in a minute. Just sit tight. Daddy'll come to you.

It takes you awhile to figure out that you don't have to wait. You could go out there on your own. You're not locked in here – or are you?

You untangle yourself, get up from the bed on legs that almost refuse to carry you. When you arrive at the door, you hesitate to reach for the door knob. What if it _is_ locked? What if it isn't? Are you better off in here than out there?

No. Bela Talbot – because that's your name, the one you chose, not the one that was given to you – doesn't cower. She's not waiting for fate to roll over her, not like Abby did. She makes her own.

The sight that greets you when you open the door is much closer to the images of hell you dreamt up in your nightmares. This is what you pictured: a sea of red, flames, a cacophony of screams resounding in your ears, and you're convinced the ground below you is moving. You don't dare to look down and make sure. You turn around, tempted to run back into the room, the sort of hell that's known and familiar, but it crumbles away in front of your eyes.

That's when you hear someone chuckle. “Oh honey. Didn't anyone tell you that Hell is a one way street? You're entitled to poor decisions, but you can't take them back. It's why you're here, isn't it?”

The voice is female, sounding amused and somewhat excited, and you can pinpoint it to a place somewhere to your left. Your eyes search frantically, but there's no one there. You swing around, see a shadow of a movement in the corner of your eye.

“Nah, Bela. Too slow. Always too slow,” the voice taunts.

You're getting pissed, anger overriding your fear. “Who are you?”

“Oh-oh. Someone's got a temper. But that's good. I like them feisty.”

You're starting to wonder if this is a hunt, if you're someone's prey, if maybe you should run. But you don't. You're done running. “Tell me who you are. Show yourself!”

“What, exactly, gave you the impression that you're in a position to make demands here?” Another movement, once again too fast for your eye to process it. Then there's a whistle, behind your back, and you swing around to follow the sound.

She's sitting on a pile of bones that wasn't there a minute ago, absently playing with a small hip bone that's crusted with blood; you recognize it because ancient bones were part of your parcel sometimes, and you had to know what was which. Her dark hair is short, eyes a solid black. She's naked, technically, but her whole body is clouded in and obscured by black smoke.

You ask her again, “Who are you?”

“Like you, I had a name that was given to me, but like you I decided it doesn't fit me anymore. A mutual acquaintance of ours would call me Meg, and I kept that name.” She doesn't look up, as if you're not worthy of her attention, sticks the hip bone back into the pile and plucks half a skull out of it. The remnants of an eyeball are still attached to it, rotten white and looking oozy, and you feel bile rise in your throat.

You find it hard to believe that you share all that many connections with a demon – witches and shamans, sure, but the only demon you ever knew was Lilith. Your stomach turns to knots, because if it's her you may be in trouble. You failed, didn't manage to do what she wanted. You swallow hard before you ask, “Which mutual acquaintance?”

“You'll find out soon enough.” She lets the skull fall to the ground and hops off the pile, swipes some gore from her legs and backside before she finally looks right at you. “Want me to show you around?”

Your first instinct is to tell her to fuck off, she can screw herself, you're not going anywhere with her, but on second thought you decide that might be unwise. You'll need every ally you can find down here, and so far she seems like one. She's got an agenda, you're certain of that, but hurting you doesn't seem to be part of it at the moment, even if it was Lilith who sent her. If it turns out you're wrong about that, you can still run later. This isn't a carnival, and you're sure worse things can happen down here than wandering around with a demon, so you nod.

“Good decision. You're learning,” she says and marches off, evidently not caring if you follow or not. After a few steps, though, she holds up. “Oh, one thing. A formality, really.”

Your heart beats a little faster. This must be it. The catch. “What?”

The demon – Meg – inclines her head, eyes you up like she's really seeing you for the first time. “Would you hurt someone else to spare yourself pain?”

Something makes you hesitate, even though you're not enough of a good person that you'll actually have to think about it; you have a feeling that this isn't a hypothetical question. Meg's eyebrows shoot up, which looks odd with her black eyes, and you nod. “Yes. I would. In a heartbeat.”

She grins. “Good. That's what I thought. We'll get back to that later, though. Gonna show you the lay of the land first.”

With that, she takes off again, still unconcerned  about whether or not you keep up. She leads you towards a red sky, a gloomy red sun obscured by clouds of an even darker shade, past seas of blood that boil and reek like copper and decay. There are mountains in the distance, off to the side, but that's not where you're going. As you walk, you begin to hear more distinct screams, moans and wailing, growing louder with time but still muffled and indistinguishable.

Suddenly, Meg stops, turns to you, then looks around. “Wait here.”

You do as you're told, frozen to the exact spot, suddenly afraid, and watch as she paces back and forth like she's led by an invisible thread. She reaches out, now and then, until she clicks her tongue and pushes at something you can't see. A door opens, heavy and stone-carved, and gives way to a dark space. The horrific sounds you so far only heard echoes of grow louder immediately, and you recoil in naked horror.

“No no,” she says, her voice a weak imitation of sympathetic; something she's heard somewhere, but can't understand or feel. “Bela, don't be afraid. I won't leave you here.”

She smiles – it's probably meant to be encouraging, but doesn't hit quite the right notes – and holds out her hand. “Come with me. Stay by my side, and nothing will happen to you.”

You don't know why you trust her, but your feet move you forward before you make the conscious decision to believe that. You take her hand, grip it tight, and follow her through the door and into a huge, dark hallway. Cold stonewalls are lit by torches at irregular intervals, and there are wooden doors every few feet, each of them with an inscription in a language you can't decipher.

Finally, Meg stops to push one of them open. “There he is. The other new arrival everyone's been waiting for.”

She's not talking to you, so you don't say a thing as you both enter the room. It's small, not much bigger than a standard prison cell on earth. There's another one of those torches, but it's not lit yet, and all you can make out in the light that comes in from the door is a wooden table and the silhouette of someone strapped to it.

He's breathing hard, spits before he answers. “Oh, c'mon. Another hell spawn that likes the sound of their own voice? Who are you? Have we met, did I send your ugly ass back here?”

Meg lets go of your hand. She snaps her fingers, and in the light of the torch you can see who it is you both have come to visit. “Dean,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

He's naked, thick leather straps with engraved sigils on wrists and ankles. There's dried blood smeared all over his stomach, drenching the leather and trickling down onto the rack, and a few cuts on his chest so deep you can see through to the bone. He cranes his head at the sound of your voice, and before his eyes find you, Meg is by his side, grabbing his jaw harshly to turn his face your way.

“Bela's done the smart thing, Dean. Didn't hesitate for a second, doesn't think she's something better. The end result will be the same; all your martyr complex is going to get you is more pain,” she snarls, lets go of his jaw and wipes her hands at the leather like she touched something dirty. “But really. With you, what else did he expect.”

Meg turns to you, picks an old-fashioned folding razor from a tray by his head. She holds it out to you, waves you forward with her other hand.

You want to decline, but then you remember the question she asked you earlier. _Would you hurt someone else to spare yourself pain?_ If you don't do this, if you don't hurt him, you'll suffer like he does. You know him, you remember him from upstairs, cocky and vibrant with life. But you don't like him enough to chose his good over yours, spare him and risk to share his fate. You're a survivor, your own best friend, and Hell isn't the right place to shed that attitude. You step forward, take the razor, a shiver running down your spine when Meg grins at you, smug and proud, and gives a little nod. She guides your hand when you make the first cut, low on his stomach, and shows you how to angle the blade. She pushes it deeper when it breaks the skin and you want to draw back on instinct. He's writhing, a sound low in his throat that's not quite a whimper, and when you look up you see he's biting his lip in an effort to hold it in.

While you work, you lose track of time. Meg's pressed up behind you, her hand still on top of yours even when you get creative and wield the razor by yourself. His moaning and hissing, the way he keens and arches up in his bonds, makes you want to close your eyes and put your hand over your ears at first, but you try to use it as a guide. The louder he gets, the more he struggles, the better you know how to aim your razor. It's horrific and you find it goes against your nature, still, your prefered flavor of cruelty has always been more subtle, but maybe you can get a taste for this instead, if you have to. You try to see this not as butchery but a work of art, his anguish your inspiration, and when Meg brushes a kiss to the back of your neck and takes control again, this time to draw your hand away, you're disappointed. You're not done; he's not finished. 

“It's okay,” she says. “We'll come back. There'll be others. I'll teach you everything I know.” And then she's gone, her body removed from yours, and you're overwhelmed with a feeling of loss you can't explain.

She leads you out of the room, through the hallway and out into the open again, and once she has closed the door behind the two of you she stills. With more care than you thought her capable of, she pushes the hair out of your face and leans in, pressing her lips to yours. It's a reward, kudos for a job well done.

When she draws back with a smug grin, your whole body quivers. You stare back at her, don't know what to say, how to react. She spares you the need to do anything by turning around, taking your hand again, and setting out to once more march through the red desert that is Hell.

“You did good,” she says after a while, conversationally. “A real talent. We'll be great together, you and me, I made the right choice.”

Of course you wonder what she means, inquiring minds need to know and yours has always been more trouble than it's worth, but you're afraid you won't like the answer. You're feeling astonishingly comfortable, _safe_ , considering where you landed yourself. It may be foolish, but you want to hold on to that as long as you possibly can.

The scenery around you changes. The two of you are now headed towards the mountains you saw earlier, and sand gives way to a forest straight from a dark fairytale. It's dim down here, and cold. You can still see the red sun in the distance, but it's not strong enough to bring heat to this place. There are trees, high and massive, broad trunks with thick vines woven around them and hanging down from the branches. They move, on occasion, and you huddle closer to Meg, afraid they might reach down and snatch you away.

She lets you, offers no comfort but doesn't shoo you away either.

You have no concept of time anymore, your world narrowed down to the nightmarish setting and the demon whose hand you cling to like it's your only lifeline. It probably is. Fear is pumping through your veins with every beat of your heart now. You've seen Dean, you're stumbling over skulls and bones with every other step, and you can't believe your luck, much less trust it. You've found a protector, someone to shield you and hide you away from agony and pain, and you won't give that up. Whatever she demands from you, whoever she puts in front of you, you'll do as she tells you.

The deeper you wander into the woods, the colder it gets, until you're downright freezing, trembling with the cold. Meg notices, squeezes your hand. “Not much farther now. We're almost there.”

You've grown comfortable enough to find your voice again, fighting back the fear and remembering who you are, who you've sworn yourself to be. “Almost where? Where are we going?”

“There's someone I want you to meet,” is all Meg says in reply, and you content yourself with that. You don't really care as long as you remain safe.

You keep walking in silence, goosebumps all over your skin and your breath puffing out in little clouds in front of your face. The cold begins to sting, makes your teeth clatter, and it takes you a while to realize that the glow from the red sun has faded and vanished. It's replaced by a blue tint that's painted all over the trees and the muddy ground in front of you. It stems form a rectangle of harsh, bright light that you're walking straight towards. Your steps slow enough that Meg has to pull you along.

She squeezes your hand in what's probably meant to be comfort, but it's a little too much pressure, makes the bones in your palm grind against each other painfully. “Don't be afraid, Bela. He won't hurt you any more than I will.”

You try to relax, but still your fear grows as you approach the rectangle, realize that it's a cage. There are bars, reaching up from the ground and continuing up higher than your eyes can track until they disappear into nothingness. What can be so horrible that it needs to be locked away _in Hell_?

Right in front of it, the light is so bright and intense that you have to shield your eyes. You see how Meg sits down on her haunches, reaches through the bars. She shivers, the smoke around her giving way and drawing back, but she doesn't seem to care. Her lips are moving, but you can't hear what she says.

“Come closer,” she demands after a while. “Say hello.”

You obey, mirror her, the cold biting at your skin as you put your hand through the bars and into the light. It hurts, and it doesn't, makes you feel like you're afloat and drags you under at the same time. There's a voice in your head, talking to you in a strange language you don't understand, and Meg smiles at you.

“He likes you. I knew he would.” She turns her attention to the light again, whispers something back in the same foreign tongue, and then she stands and pulls you up alongside with her.

You don't want to go. It hurts to turn around and leave, every fiber of your being yearning to go back to him, touch him, be with him, and you feel tears stinging in your eyes. Meg takes your hand again, shushes you, but it's no use. You start to cry, messy and uninhibited, and she stops to take you aside, makes you sit down by a tree. She's pushing strands of your hair from your face again, and this time it's you who reaches up, hauls her down, and brings your lips together. She comes willingly, though, lays down by your side and kisses back, lets you dictate the pace. Heat replaces sadness deep in your belly, and your hands roam along her naked skin, up and down her torso. You're facing each other, close enough that the heat from her body seeps into yours and makes the shivering stop, warms you inside and out. Your hands glide down, between her legs, and you groan when she parts them and pushes up into your touch. You bring her off hard and fast – two fingers in her cunt and unrelenting pressure to her clit – basking in the sounds she's making, hoarse and needy, until she cries out, shudders and roughly pulls your hand away from her body.

Panic fills you at once, makes you numb with fear you might've overstepped your boundaries, made her angry, and that she'll abandon you out here. It'd be the kinder fate, a cruel little voice in the back of your head chimes in, reminds you of Dean and his cell, the rack and the blood and the tray full of razors and pliers by his head.

She stands slowly, extends a hand to help you up once she's on her feet. You take it gladly, relief washing through you when she touches a hand to your cheek, caresses it with her thumb. “Initiative. I like that.”

And that's good, you can work with that, initiative happens to be something you're good at. No, not just that. You're at your best when saddled with a task to excel, and you're going to excel at this. You resolve to take initiative frequently and in ever more creative and pleasing ways, to learn what she wants, what makes her moan and what will ensure that she'll never, _ever_ want to leave you behind. 

You take her hand that's still resting on your face, keep it in place while you turn your head to kiss her palm and hope she accepts this as your oath of fealty. Your heart beats faster while you wait for her to react, until she runs her fingers down your cheek once more before she lets go, extracts her hand from your hold. 

"You'll be amazing," she says. "Together, we'll set the world on fire." 

She takes off in the direction of the relentless red sun, and you follow, matching her step. You're not her shadow; you're her charge, her apprentice. You'll burn for her.


End file.
